


The Important Things (Cats, Socks, and Muffins)

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asperger's Syndrome, Autism, Gen, Stream of Consciousness, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took Molly a while to come to terms with herself and her identity, but she's generally happy.<br/>But some days are not good days, and this is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Important Things (Cats, Socks, and Muffins)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KayleeFrye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeFrye/gifts).



> So I'm uploading this on my birthday, even though everyone else won't get to see it until later, but let's call it my birthday present to the world. 
> 
> Also, the title kind of sucks, since I ran out of time coming up with it.

Molly curled up tighter underneath her desk. Her arms were wrapped around her knees to clasp them to her chest, and she knew she was rocking slightly.

 

It hadn't been a good morning. Toby had been ill, throwing up throughout the night -which wasn't entirely unusual, since he bathed obsessively, and tended to have furballs- but when he didn't eat in the morning, she grew concerned.

She phoned the vet, and dropped him off before coming in to work. She couldn't skip, because she was the only one working that day.

But just thinking about losing Toby made her heart clench and her chest all tight, and she recognized it as fear and worry and dread. Because she'd just left him alone, and what if he did die, and she wasn't there for him?

 

She forced herself to take a deep breath.

The emotional turmoil combined with the lack of sleep resulted in the perfect storm, and left her on edge. The tipping point was something so simple, only because she was so close already. Honestly, a grown woman should not cry over a muffin. She hated that it seemed like such a big deal, because it wasn't, and she knew that. Any other day she would have been able to get something different for breakfast, but not today. Like she'd said, it was a bad day.

 

And not to mention, she had just been getting over her relationship with Jim. And how she was duped by him, by Sherlock, by everyone. She really hated men in that moment.

Honestly, she could pick them. Not only was he gay (or maybe he wasn't, she wasn't sure on that, but he did seem to like Glee) but he was also a psychopath.

She should probably just not date anymore.

Which was what Toby was for. She'd become a crazy cat lady.

But if she lost him...

Her heart sank just thinking about it. So she probably shouldn't.

But it was the sort of day where thoughts went around and around in her head and only picked up speed the more she tried to ignore them.

 

To top it all off, Sherlock was supposed to be coming by shortly. Sherlock was difficult enough to deal with on a good day, since he was abrasive, and today was most certainly not a good day.

 

She breathed again and tried to stop the tears. They'd stopped streaming down her face, but every time she thought about Toby, they started up again, hot and fast against her cheeks. It was exhausting.

She twisted her wrist and took another deep breath and steeled herself for dealing with Sherlock again. He was supposed to be by shortly, and she should probably be out from under the bench by then, but she couldn't force herself to leave the safe place. She had a tendency to hide, curl herself up into the smallest possible shape, and hide away when she was stressed and panicking.

 

The door opened, and a single set of footsteps entered. He hadn't brought John then, which was odd. He seemed to be getting very attached to him, which was nice.

“Molly?”

Oh. That wasn't Sherlock's voice. It was John's. So John came alone?

“Molly?” he called again, his footsteps stopping just behind her.

She pondered whether she wanted to admit to being there or not.

_You can do it,_ she told herself.  _You can do it. Yup. You can. Totally. Or else Sherlock will just come by later, and he is not as understanding as John._

 

She licked her lips.

“Yeah,” she whispered, and she thought for a moment that he hadn't heard, until the footsteps started up again, and he came around the bench.

 

She was probably a mess, her face red, her hair mussed, and here was John, a man she barely knew, looking at her at her worst.

She wondered what he would say, what he would do. How could he possibly react to finding her sitting under a desk, in tears? How would he react to Sherlock in such a situation? She was fairly certain that Sherlock was autistic as well, but couldn't be certain. Since she'd been diagnosed, she had gotten fairly well versed in recognizing others, and she couldn't help but feel a sort of kindred spirit in Sherlock.

Or maybe she was just imagining things. After all, she'd only known about herself for a few years.

 

She wasn't diagnosed until she was older, when she went to school and took psychology courses, amongst all the other things she did. They were warned about medical student syndrome, and for a while she was convinced she had both diabetes and cancer, and for a while suspected she had a rare sleeping sickness, but when she heard about autism in the psych class, it _fit_. So she did research on autism, and found that there were subtypes, and the one that fit her best was Asperger's Syndrome.

 

Armed with the name and the internet, she discovered an entire community of people like herself, who didn't quite fit in, who didn't see and interpret the world in the same way, and it was wonderful. She discovered message boards and forums and people that shared similar interests ( _special_ interests, which explained her childhood obsessions) and made new friends that understood.

And she talked to people about the best way she could get diagnosed, if she wanted to be diagnosed. For some people it wasn't possible, for whatever reason, mostly in other countries where mental health care wasn't covered by insurance.

 

In the end, she did decide to get diagnosed, even if it was just for herself. No one else needed to know, and it certainly wasn't going to hurt her.

She got a referral from her GP, who had looked at her while she explained why she wanted to be referred. At the end, he simply nodded and agreed with her, which made her blush. Was it really that obvious?

Afterwards, she had a two appointments with a psychiatrist, and he was lovely, really. The diagnosis was a bit more difficult, since he asked a lot of questions about her development and early childhood, and she didn't have parents that could answer them. But her memory was good, and they did the best they could together. After the first appointment, he sent her a report in the post, and although she couldn't entirely understand it, she got the gist of it, including his diagnosis, which was helpfully highlighted at the end.

The second appointment was so he could go over the report with her, and answer any questions she had. He also recommended some places she could go for support groups, and occupational therapy.

 

She absorbed the knowledge that he veritably gushed, drinking it up like a sponge, because for the first time, everything in her life made more sense. Her strange sense of humour, her love of wearing socks even in the summer, the way she'd shut down when anxious and become unable to speak properly.

Less common in girls. That's what he told her anyway, although she wasn't sure if she really believed it. But diagnosis, and the referral to the diagnosis, was based on stereotypical symptoms that were more prevalent and obvious in boys. She accepted it for what it was, for the time being.

 

Still, she wasn't sure about Sherlock. He didn't present classically, or at least, not from what she'd seen, but then she didn't see him that much. And Sherlock was intelligent and skilled enough to hide his symptoms if he so desired. The only real evidence she had was a gut feeling. Their interactions were awkward, and she wasn't sure if it was because she was attracted to him and it made her stupider, or if it was a combination of their hopeless social abilities colliding to make a perfect storm.

 

The coffee interaction on the day he met John was a perfect example of that. She asked him if he'd like to get coffee, and he sent her to fetch coffee. She analyzed the conversation while she was doing it, conceding that it could have been misunderstood, especially by someone like Sherlock. Like her.

But then it could also have been Sherlock being purposely dismissive.

 

She was suspicious by nature. She had to be after primary school.

Girls were terrible creatures, especially preteen girls. They were vindictive, judgemental, highly territorial, and above all, fickle.

She was far too trusting, taking everyone at face value, and it led to her being hurt repeatedly, until she realized people were awful, and cats and books were her friends.

School was better after that, but no less lonely.

 

John interrupted her train of thought, the memories racing around and around again in her mind, wearing her thin. He was crouched down next to her, a look of concern on his face.

“Molly, are you alright?”

She nodded, and then shook her head.

“No. Well, I will be. Just need to breathe for a bit.”

 

He nodded, and sat down next to her, folding his legs under him and pulling out his phone.

 

It took her a few minutes, but she felt more composed, and less likely to burst into tears, so she stood up, and John followed.

 

“Are you alright?” John asked again.

“Yeah. I mean, well, apart from the obvious.” She twisted her sleeve around her hand, then had to match it up on the other side. John was watching her with mild interest, and she sank into a stool, as if it would help.

She blushed, and tried to stop her leg bouncing nervously.

“I'm... autistic. High functioning.” She winced. “Oh, I don't really like that term. Asperger's, although apparently it's not going to exist for much longer. Which I don't really like, because it's an identity and they want to take it away. I'm sorry. For...” she waved a hand at the bench she'd been sitting under. “Everything. Talking. I... sometimes don't know how or when to shut up.” She winced again, because she sounded awful, and John was someone she liked and respected and now what would he think of her?

John just smiled kindly at her and nodded. “I know what you mean.”

He considered her. “Have you spoken with Sherlock about it?” he asked, tilting his head to one side. “He is on the spectrum as well, in case you hadn't worked that out.” He smiled slightly.

She shook her head. “I'm so bad at speaking with him, period, and I'm sure if I tried to bring that topic up, well, it just wouldn't go well. I mean, I'm pretty sure he would hate it if I mentioned it, because then it would have been noticeable, and I'm sure he does his best to hide it.” She floundered for a moment, unsure of what to say next. “I'm sure you noticed,” she finished lamely.

John chuckled. “Oh yes. He was pissed when I first brought the topic up, but to be fair, it was after he'd had a meltdown and shattered glass beakers all over the kitchen.”

Molly winced. “Yeah, I'm guessing he wasn't up for a discussion,” she muttered, remembering her previous meltdowns, and how non-verbal she was after them. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't the same, but she couldn't imagine anyone wanting to have to explain after breaking down like that. (Of course, her meltdowns tended to involve tears, and afterwards, she was liable to start crying at the slightest provocation, including the inability to form words that could express anything she felt. It was best not to bother.)

John shook his head, a fond look on his face.

“He'd managed to get glass in his feet as well. I spent the better part of an hour picking shards out while he sat there and pointedly ignored me. I spoke to him, nothing important, just chatting, but it turned out he hadn't heard any of it. In his mind palace,” John snorted. “He's ridiculous, he really is. You should talk to him about this sometime.”

She filed that away, but knew she probably wouldn't ever speak with Sherlock on the topic. They both knew it.

“So what did you do?” Molly asked. Because really, John's reaction was a deciding factor in Sherlock's continuing friendship with him.

John raised an eyebrow. “I bought him plastic beakers.”

She smiled, despite herself.

 

She brushed her shirt off, feeling like she'd managed to get it dirty while sitting under her bench, and felt the first hints of shame rising up for having been seen like that.

“Please...” she said quietly, not making eye contact with John. It was too hard. “Don't tell Sherlock about this.”

He smiled broadly at her, and it was genuine and warm and reassuring. “Doctor patient confidentiality,” he told her. “I won't breathe a word. Now. What is this evidence that Sherlock sent me over to collect, because he's apparently _so_ busy sitting on the couch doing nothing?”

She managed to smile at him, and it was nowhere near as wide as his or as warm, but it was genuine, and perhaps the best she'd felt all day.

“Just over here,” she told him, leading the way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've based a lot of Molly's symptoms heavily on my own, namely the socks, the cats, and the general people things. Also the hiding under things and rocking and crying and yeah, basically everything.


End file.
